


Scrimshaw

by sumhowe_sailing



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Fluff, M/M, husbands being supportive, that's basically it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-19 12:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11898240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: Ishmael teaches himself to do scrimshaw. Fluff ensues.





	Scrimshaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [3rnest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rnest/gifts).



> Written for an art exchange with 3rnest. It's not quite as fluffy as I had initially intended, and I will almost certainly write you another one at some point.

That fateful trip upon the _Pequod_ was not my first time at sea. I was already well acquainted with all the usual pastimes–both those commonly acknowledged and those left pointedly undiscussed–though I had not yet tried my hand at them all. One particular craft had always struck me as especially elegant and worthy of a seaman’s time during all the watches not spent aloft. I speak, quite naturally, of scrimshaw.  
How I used to watch those artists carve the night hours away! What a subtly sublime notion, to take the teeth and bones, the very core, of the noblest creatures now living, and to add to it such tokens of love or honor or man’s prowess at sea! If ever there was a more perfect combination of the genius of Nature and the genius of Man, I have not yet seen it. Though I had admired such artistry greatly, I had never before tried the practice of it myself. I had only sailed on merchant ships where whale bone was not plentiful; and as I had nothing valuable enough to induce anyone to trade a piece away to me, I had to be content to watch. Yet once I shipped with the _Pequod_ , once we had taken a whale or two, there was no shortage of bone for these men, these master carvers!, to work with–and plenty to spare for the rest of us as well.  
I am, by nature, somewhat timid of allowing others to see me struggle with a new task. At times it cannot be avoided, but whenever possible I prefer to learn away from the eyes of others. So when I had collected a few pieces of bone and an old sailor’s needle, I hid myself away and began trying to replicate some of the finer art I had seen. Now that so much time has passed, I do not mind admitting that I was hopeless.  
The curve of the bone, the way the needle would suddenly slip across it, or the pitch of the ship just as I reached a most delicate line: all these, and more, were things I had failed to consider when setting out. And though I soon grew to expect them, it did not help me in the least to counteract them and improve. Now and again a particularly inconvenient slip of the hand or roll of the ship would send all the force with which I had been trying to work the bone driving the needle into my hand. At such times I would curse and become discouraged for an hour or so, but it would not be long before I was hiding away to try again.  
It was during a particularly frustrating bout of practice as I struggled to make anything that even remotely resembled a human face that I failed to hear someone coming down to my little corner of the hold. When I finally did notice the shadow looming, indicating I was about to have company, it was too late to hide the implements properly. At a loss for better options, I simply grabbed the things and held my hands behind my back. It was a foolish impulse, but man is a foolish creature.  
“Ishmael?”  
How relieved I was to hear that voice!  
“Queequeg? Is that you?”  
He came into the light, letting the answer speak itself. As I babbled about how glad I was to see him and what a start he had given me, he came and sat wordlessly beside me. After a moment, I realized I was still concealing my poor attempt at the noble craft; I was briefly paralyzed with indecision whether to simply set them down and pretend they were not there, or to show them to Queequeg, who, alone among the crew, I was sure would make no harsh jests about my ineptitude. Queequeg decided the matter for me by asking what I had behind my back.  
I tried to laugh the sheepishness away as, like a guilty pupil in an old schoolroom, I reluctantly brought the article forth for examination. The way his face lit up was worth any embarrassment I might have felt. He took my bit of bone and examined every inch of it, poring over my follies as though they were precious art. I tried to mutter a few excuses, but he waved them all away, and before I could try again he filled the silence with praises and small observations. I was so grateful to him for it I could have kissed him (and indeed I will not say that I did not). This is not to say that he pretended I was a master at the art, but only that he encouraged me to keep trying.  
After that, he would often come down to the hold to find me plying the needle and bone. I no longer hid them from him, nor from anyone else who happened to wander through. But the little corner I had found had become so familiar to me, so comfortable, in its way, that it never occurred to me to take my tools elsewhere. When Queequeg was there, he would sometimes offer suggestions about how to hold the tooth or the needle to make them easier to control. He also, with the instinct of a true sailor, warned me when the motion of the ship would increase. We spent a great deal of time thus, talking congenially as he watched me learn a craft, encouraging me when I grew frustrated. At other times when he came down to the hold, I would set the craft aside and we would enjoy other pastimes until we heard someone else coming along.  
As the voyage went on and as whale bone became even more abundant in our little floating world, my fingers learned the trick of it and, if I may say, even grew somewhat skillful. I cannot tell you with what joy I first completed a piece that pleased not only my bosom friend, but myself as well. I presented him with that first truly finished piece, for the result was due as much to his own effort (in support and encouragement and suggestion) as my own. Simple as it was, he seemed delighted to have it. He clasped me around the waist and pressed our foreheads together in a way that had become habitual, before running off to show my work around, so proud was he.  
The more I worked at it, the easier scrimshaw became. And the easier it became, the more I wanted to work at it. Soon, I was spending nearly every free moment with needle in hand. Even, though Captain Ahab would have flayed me if he knew, in the crow’s nest. In fact it was in the crow’s nest that I got the idea for my finest piece of work yet. It had been nearly a year since the Pequod had weighed anchor—nearly a year since I had met the dearest friend I had ever had. I wanted to commemorate the occasion, and what better way than to carve it in bone?  
Soon I was once more stealing moments, hiding my work even from him. Though I had other pieces to work on while he was around, I never quite knew if his suspicion was roused by the brief flurries of movement, of one bone disappearing while another was whipped out, upon his approach. It was an arduous process. I had never realized how often I was with my dear friend until suddenly I needed time to work alone. This is not a complaint, only an observation.  
Eventually though, a week or so after the anniversary of our first meeting, I was able to rub charcoal into the lines and bring the etching forth. It was not the most complex design that I had done, nor the most skillfully wrought. But of all the teeth I have ever carved, I shall always cherish it as my favorite. It was two silhouettes, his and mine, facing each other, practically nose-to-nose, ensconced in a neat oval, around which the sea rolls ever on.  
When I gave him this, there was not the immediate joy that had accompanied the first gift. As he contemplated the tooth in silence, I began to fear he did not like it or thought I was being too sentimental—but, finally, he looked up from the scrimshaw and met my gaze with such unbounded love that it made my heart swell. I was immensely glad that we were already in the hold, for after that look I would not have had the patience to climb down before taking him in my arms. As it was, we did not come up again until many hours later, just as the sun was beginning to tinge the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are an excessive amount of exclamation points in this, but it's Ishmael, what did you expect?


End file.
